


Darkness Again

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Selves, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19382863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: In which Eliot and Margo return to Fillory, only to find that a Shadeless Eliot has taken the throne in their absence.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just fully spoiling the ~twist~ about the Dark King in the summary because this fic isn't actually about that. The whole Dark King thing is just the set up. The real story is going to be a fun* quest with Margo & Eliot & Eliot trying to get Quentin back.  
> Did I need to write this? Probably not. But alas, here I am. Let me know what you think of my nonsense.  
> (*disclaimer: cannot actually promise it will be fun)

He adjusted his crown. It never quite felt like it fit the way it used to, the way it had before. The way it had when it felt so natural it was almost an extension of himself. When it had been reverently placed on his head in that makeshift ceremony.

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was wearing it. His reign was uncontested. His power was boundless.

This was what he’d wanted.

So what if they all called him Dark King? It was a title that evoked fear and awe. He’d _earned_ it. He could remember the time when he wanted to rule by inspiration and compassion, but that was only his weakness being in control.

His weakness that he’d had removed.

It was better this way.

Who needed to _feel?_

“My liege,” his advisor said, bowing. The man’s eyes flicked around the room anxiously.

The Dark King raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. “Spit it out, we don’t have all day,” he drawled carelessly.

“The Lorians have sent a negotiator,” his advisor began hesitantly. “They wish to discuss peace. And where we can mark the border.”

The Dark King’s lips twisted up into a smug smile. Oh, the Lorians wanted peace, of _course_ they did. No one wanted to be at war with Fillory under his rule.

“I’d be _happy_ to negotiate with them,” the Dark King replied, “about how Loria will now be under Fillorian rule.”

His advisor pursed his lips, looking almost like he wanted to argue.

 _Oh, please do,_ the king thought, _I’ve been bored all day._

“Right, of course, you Highness,” his advisor said meekly, bowing deeply again before ducking out of the throne room.

The king leaned back in his throne, sighing heavily. He liked the power. He liked the crown, and the jewels, and the clothes. He _loved_ the throne. But—

God, it was kind of boring. Wasn’t it? Ruling alone. He almost wished he had kings and queens beside him, to enjoy all the victories with. Absently, there were a few people in particular that he could think of that he might like to have around, but…

Well. It was fine. It was completely, absolutely fine. He was fully capable of ruling alone. It didn't really bother him. He got more done this way anyway. Who needed anyone else, any of those people that crossed his mind in quiet moments? 

He didn't need them. He didn't need anyone. 

He didn’t _care._

He’d made sure of that.

\---

 _Not this too,_ was the only thought crossing Eliot’s mind. _Please, fuck, not this too._

Hadn’t he and Margo been through enough? _Lost_ enough? The one thing—the _one_ thing that had kept him together, kept him able to wash his hair and button up his shirt, was the promise of returning _home_. The promise of going back to Whitespire, where Eliot’s life had felt _real_ and good for the first time ever.

He belonged there, in a way that he’d never quite been able to explain. He couldn't lose that. Not  _now._

_Not this too._

If he lost Fillory—

After fucking _everything else—_

After _Quentin—_

Well. Eliot had two options:

Feel the despair or feel the fury.

He chose fury.

“Bambi,” he said, his voice dangerously even. “We are going to have to get our castle back.”

She’d chosen fury, too. Unsurprisingly. 

Fury was, well, preferable. 

“Fuck this fucking Dark King dickweed,” she spat, her eyes hot with rage. “That place is _ours.”_

There was so much they didn’t talk about, him and Margo. So much they ended up avoiding in the interest of self preservation. So much they refused to address. The enormity of their losses. The vastness of the grief. That night at the bonfire, that night that they all seemed to separately choose to block out. That awful, empty, cold night. 

Alice had been the first one gone—Eliot hadn’t seen her since. She vanished off somewhere and he hadn't bothered to check up on her. Penny left soon after, after attempting to put a hand on Julia’s shoulder and being shrugged off. He left with his tail between his legs, and Eliot only saw him in passing as he seemed to try to stay near Julia, despite the cold shoulder she gave him. Margo had bailed after that, muttering something about needing a shower and an Ambien. Eliot had seen her later; she hadn't slept. Kady left once the fire had died down to a smolder, wordlessly squeezing Julia's hand. 

Eliot and Julia had stayed until the sky had begun to get light. They hadn't spoken. They'd just sat together and watched the sunrise until they could no longer justify staring at the ashes. Dawn had come, though it felt strange that the sun could rise on such a world. 

But time kept passing, whether they wanted to accept what had happened or not. It didn’t matter how long they stayed, how much they tried to cling to the dwindling flames. What had happened would always have happened, and the world didn’t care about their denial. The world spun, uncaring and cold, and Eliot couldn't begin to fathom where that left him. 

Denial and anger were tied for Eliot’s favorite stages of grief though, so he was maintaining a pretty fun mix of the two.

And today, anger was more at the forefront of his mind.

“I have already been overthrown once,” Eliot said, barely keeping his voice from being a snarl. “You’ve been overthrown twice. I am _not_ going to be kicked out of that castle again—we are _getting it back.”_

“Alright,” Margo said, glaring into the distance. “Fucking game plan. You ready?”

“We’re fucking Magicians,” Eliot replied. “We got this.”

Margo nodded. “Fuck this guy and the goddamn horse he stumbled in on. The _Dark King._ What a fucking dumbass name—what King Edgelord wasn’t good enough?”

Eliot shook his head. “The nerve. How dare he be so _boring_ in his villainy. Don’t we deserve a better antagonist?”

“Fuck yeah we do, let’s make him _pay_ for it.”

Eliot felt more awake than he had in days. “He chose the wrong fucking time to piss us off.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I never know what I'm doing, and I will never change or improve, and we're all just going to have to deal with that.

The ability to form a coherent plan was, to say the least, more difficult when you were ready to risk your life haphazardly for any chance at a fight distracting enough to pull your focus away from the absolute mess that was your life.

Such was the state of mind for Eliot. And, apparently, for Margo.

“How about we just storm the fucking castle and tear it to goddamn shreds?” she muttered.

They’d managed to find an abandoned cottage in the woods to rest, not too far from Whitespire.

A cottage that Eliot was trying not to pay too close attention to. He wasn’t sure if it _was_ familiar or if it just _felt_ familiar, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to try and sort through _that._ He emphatically did not want to know. He was in no emotional state to _feel._

“Bambi, while I love the enthusiasm,” he said, taking a sip from the terrible Fillorian liquor they’d managed to, well, steal from the nearest tavern, “that’s _our_ castle. Not sure tearing it to shreds it the best decision.”

_Were those the shutters he repaired? Was that the tree Teddy climbed? Was that a broken tile, there in the corner of the yard?_

“We can rebuild it,” Margo replied, waving a hand dismissively. “King Emo probably painted all the walls black and carved Evanescence lyrics into them anyway.”

“I do shudder to think of the design changes,” Eliot murmured. Now, he wouldn’t exactly say his most _meaningful_ accomplishments as king were his changes to the aesthetic in the castle. But they were, in fact, some of his favorites.

Nothing had quite made him feel like he belonged there as the ability to suit the interior design to his vague childhood dreams of being something more, in some grander place.

That castle certainly was grand.

He felt a pang of nostalgia, of homesickness—the cottage was _not_ helping. _That windowsill—was that where Quentin put the basil plant? If Eliot looked, would there be lines on the wall, marking how tall Teddy was each year? Were Arielle’s paintings here somewhere?_

He tried desperately to shove it away.

The floodgates couldn’t open. Eliot couldn’t let himself feel any of it.

He’d drown. He’d die.

He shook his head a little, trying to gather himself. “What we really need is a way to enter the castle unnoticed,” Eliot said, truly half-hearted in his planning. “So we can just kill and overthrow the king before anyone even notices.”

“Appealing idea,” Margo said. “Y’know, I did pick up tricks from Alice’s light-bending. Bet I could cover the two of us.”

Eliot shrugged. “Good enough for me.”

Margo raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? ‘Good enough for me,’ are you joking?”

“Nope,” Eliot said, stifling a sigh. “Sounds perfect. Let’s throw caution to wind, hm? Things will go as well as they can or whatever.” He waved a hand vaguely.

Margo _almost_ looked concerned, her brow furrowing. She shook her head, letting out a small, incredulous laugh.

“If that’s what I sound like… Maybe we should wait until morning to make any decisions,” she said.

“Oh, right. Sure,” Eliot said, a little sarcastically, widening his eyes. “I bet we’ll be _way_ more stable and careful after a good night’s rest. My sense of self preservation bounces back like that.”

“Eliot—”

“After a good meal, too, hm? Can’t recklessly storm a castle on an empty stomach.”

Margo pursed her lips, shooting him a look. A look that was absolutely warning him to _stop._

He did not.

“That’s, after all, _just_ what we need, right? It’ll _solve everything,_ won’t it?” His voice was getting so bitter, it felt like it was dripping with it. “I mean, we’ll decide we want to try a smart, safe plan, rather than indulging the risk, because _suddenly_ things will be _fucking better._ The sun will rise on a wonderful, _perfect_ world, and everything will make sense again.”

“Eliot,” Margo snapped. “Don’t fucking talk to me like I don’t get it.”

He scoffed, getting to his feet and taking another long sip. “Right, of _course_ you get it. Losing Josh is the exact same fucking thing, right? Your new _boytoy_ , and my—”

He cut off abruptly, choking on how much he didn’t even know what he could call Quentin. What word would encompass all that he’d been to Eliot.

Soul mate wasn’t enough.

“First of all, fuck you,” Margo said, but her voice lacked the venom Eliot would’ve expected from the way he’d talked to her. “And second of all, that’s not what I meant.”

Her voice had gotten so soft that the anger and bitterness that had shielded Eliot from the pain fell away a little and he just felt raw.

He looked at her, swallowing back the tears that were threatening to consume him.

She got to her feet, moving next to him, her eyes wide and watery. “I loved Quentin, too.”

Eliot felt a bubble of near-hysterical laughter building in his chest. “ _Love,”_ he corrected. “Present tense.”

She pressed her lips together. “Yeah,” she said, her voice quiet and empty.

God, everything hurt so fucking much.

“Fuck.” He took another long sip, clutching the bottle. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ Margo.”

“I know.”

“How the _fuck_ are we supposed to live with it?”

“By storming our fucking castle, I guess.”

Eliot hurled the bottle at the nearest tree and it shattered.

It might’ve even felt cathartic, if everything wasn’t already too bleak and hopeless and _fucking empty_ for that sort of thing.

\---

Here’s the thing: recklessness and throwing caution to the wind was not an adequate plan.

Eliot knew this. Margo knew this. They both _knew._

And yet.

This was a situation in which someone playing the role of the voice of reason would have been a very helpful asset. As it was, all Eliot and Margo had was each other. And it wasn’t that they didn’t _care_ what happened to themselves, but—

It was that any crisis, any danger, any magic Fillorian nonsense—it was all preferable to dealing with their current situation.

So they did exactly what their plan—or lack thereof—called for.

They just went straight to the castle. Margo covering them with a light-bending spell. That she was not particularly good at. And both of them prepared with battle spells at the ready. That they were not particularly good at.

Eliot would not say this night was their finest moment.

It took, charitably, half an hour for guards to capture them and toss them into a cell together to await the Dark King.

“I’ll grant him that the decor is much classier than I would’ve expected,” Eliot commented lightly.

Margo shot him a glare. “Yeah, the jail cell is real fucking nice.”

“Well, we did _see_ some of the other rooms on our way here,” Eliot replied. “They were surprisingly tasteful.”

“Yeah, whatever, no Evanescence lyrics, I’m real impressed,” Margo muttered, crossing her arms.

“I’m just _saying,_ I can appreciate a villain with a sense of aesthetics.”

“I’d appreciate it more if he wasn’t fucking with our castle.”

“The new drapes were nice.”

“Eliot.”

“What?”

\---

“Your majesty,” his advisor said, bowing deeply. As he leaned back up, he kept wringing his hands, nervous gaze flitting around the room.

The Dark King narrowed his gaze. His advisor’s nervous energy could almost be endearing sometimes—a little familiar really.

But now, he just seemed like he was terrified for his life.

Which, frankly, _bored_ the Dark King. He wasn’t just going around executing people for no reason, _thank_ you very much. He could appreciate his subjects and servants being afraid of him, but being petrified to the point of not being able to speak was, at best, inconvenient, and at worst, mildly insulting.

They should be so grateful, to have the Dark King’s mercy.

“ _Out_ with it,” he said.

“Well, sire, we—we found some, um, trespassers. In the castle. Uh. Yeah.”

The Dark King raised an eyebrow. “So? Throw them in the dungeon, what do I care?”

His advisor gave him a wide-eyed, meaningful look. “You’re going to want to see these trespassers.”

Hm.

Intriguing.

He cocked his head to the side a little, considering.

Well.

He _had_ been bored, after all. And this seemed promising.

“Send them in, I suppose,” the Dark King said.

His advisor bowed again. “As you wish, High King Eliot.”

\---

Now, Eliot was very familiar with his own self-hatred.

This was something else.

The vitriol he felt for this arrogant, cruel, _annoying_ man—

He supposed he’d finally met someone he hated more than himself. It was just, well, still himself.

The Dark King smirked.

“What, pray tell, are you two hoping to accomplish?” he drawled, and Eliot _hated_ that fucking affected voice.

“I’m gonna need a fucking explanation here,” Margo said.

The Dark King raised an eyebrow at her and studied his hand, looking almost bored. “I think you’ll find you’re in no position to be making any demands, Bambi.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” she snapped.

“My, my, feeling a little on edge, are we?” He snapped his fingers at one of the servants. “Please, bring these two some wine. They may need it.”

“We were hoping to take our castle back,” Eliot said, answering the Dark King’s question.

“Oh? How’s that going for you?”

“Honestly? Could be better.”

“Clearly.”

“Can you tell us what the _fuck_ is going on in this goddamn nightmare?” Margo interjected sharply.

The Dark King narrowed his eyes. He waved a hand at his court. “Leave us.”

“The wine—”

“Forget it, just go.”

His advisor stepped forward. “But sire—”

“Go _on_ , I don’t appreciate having to repeat myself.”

He bowed. “Right. Of course. My apologies.”

Eliot waited until everyone else had left to speak again.

“Who the _hell_ are you?”

“You could say I’m a future version of you,” the Dark King drawled. “One of many possibilities.”

Eliot stared. “Yeah. Okay.” His tone was flat and dry. Whatever. This might as well happen.

Margo let out a semi-hysterical laugh. “Okay, that like, explains _so_ fucking little.”

The Dark King sighed. He gave them a crooked, cruel smile. “Well, I assume you’ve gotten to the part where Quentin dies?”

_Fuck._

He said it so casually that Eliot and Margo both practically flinched.

“Ah. Clearly you have.”

He sounded borderline pleased. Eliot glared up at him, his blood boiling. This asshole was _enjoying_ this. Eliot wanted to kill him.

“You’re _not_ Eliot,” Margo said. There was something strange in her voice. It took Eliot a moment to realize it was fear.

The Dark King raised his eyebrows, looking unimpressed. “I assure you, I am.” He sighed, leaning back in his throne grandly. “I suppose it all started when I went to the Underworld to rescue Q.”

All the air was sucked out of the room.

_Rescue Q._

Eliot felt like he was spinning, like he was untethered from gravity. Everything was distorted and wrong and distant. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

Quentin was _dead_. Rescuing him wasn’t an option.

Right?

_“Oh,”_ the Dark King said, his smile growing just a little. “I _see._ You didn’t realize.”

“What—what do you mean rescue Q?” Margo said, breathless.

Eliot was glad she said it. He wouldn’t have been able to get the words out.

“Just that, Bambi. Quentin died, I was going to drag him back from the afterlife, it was all very dramatic.” The Dark King’s voice was so unconcerned. It was like he didn’t _care._

Eliot _desperately_ wanted to be anywhere else. Kady’s loft. The Physical Cottage. _Indiana._ Whatever.

Anywhere but this room, this place, this moment.

“I was, hm, _intercepted._ By Hades.” Other Eliot’s eyes connected with Eliot’s. Cold and dark and apathetic. “He made me a different offer.”

\---

The Dark King, despite his best efforts, did go through that memory sometimes—

Often when he didn’t expect it, the images and feeling would just arise.

He didn’t _feel_ it anymore. He just remembered feeling it. He remembered the moments, the steps, the decisions. He knew it was him. He knew it had happened to him. And he knew he was _supposed_ to feel something about it.

He just. Didn’t.

_Eliot was in the elevator, his heart pounding so hard in his chest it almost hurt. Reminding him he was alive. Despite where he was. Despite the situation surrounding him._

_God. He had no idea what he was doing. His hands shook._

_He hadn’t let any grief hit get. He hadn’t felt the pain, not really. None of it was real yet._

_Because he could still fix this._

_Or so he kept telling himself, in any case._

_Here he was. Fixing it. Trying to._

_It, frankly, did not take very long for him to get caught._

_Maybe if he’d gotten just a little bit farther, things would have turned out differently._

_Hades had kind eyes and a warm smile. Eliot sat stiffly on the other side of the desk. There was somewhere he needed to_ be, _he didn’t have the time for this._

_“Eliot Waugh,” Hades said with a short sigh. “An interesting case you are.”_

_Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Thanks? Maybe?”_

_“Were you aware that your book is in two volumes?” Hades asked._

_“I’ve seen them.”_

_“It’s fascinating. That really is quite rare.”_

_“Right.”_

_“Would it interest you to know, why you have two volumes?”_

_Eliot sighed. “Actually, no. I’ve kind of got something else going on, so like, no offense, but if you don’t mind—”_

_“Of course, of course. Quentin Coldwater.”_

_Eliot snapped his jaw shut, tensing._

_“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll let you go after him,” Hades said, almost gently, “if that’s really what you decide you want to do.”_

_Eliot scoffed. “Why in the hell would I not?”_

_The room felt a little colder and Hades smiled like Eliot had asked just the right question._

_“I have some unfortunate news for you,” Hades replied. He seemed less warm. Less kind._

_“I don’t know that I want to hear it.”_

_Hades leaned forward. “Quentin. He doesn’t want to go with you. You can search this entire place for him—you won’t find him. And even if you do, he’s exactly where he wants to be. You’ll never get him to return with you. And I think deep down, you know that. Don’t you?”_

_Every word stung._

_“It’s worth it just to try.”_

_Hades shook his head. “You’ll fail. It’ll hurt. You’ll never recover. I’ve read so many versions of your book.” His eyes glinted. “You think you’re the first person to try this?”_

_Eliot’s conviction was wavering dangerously. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, with nothing to cling to. Nothing he could hold on to. He was going to freefall into hopelessness at any minute._

_He tried to open his mouth, tried to say that he was going to do it anyway, tried to say that no matter what his chances were, no matter how miniscule the possibility, Quentin would always be worth it to him._

_No words came._

_“I have another offer for you, though,” Hades said, almost casually, like the offer would be tea or something. “Preferable to failing to bring back to love of your life and living with the consequences.”_

_Eliot swallowed. He shouldn’t ask._

_“So? What’s the offer?”_

_Hades smiled, and he was back to seeming warm and inviting._

_“You go back home,” he said gently. “And you leave this pain you feel behind. And you return to Fillory to live out your days as king.”_

_“Leave the pain behind?” Eliot said. He hated himself for liking the sound of that, but…_

_“It’ll be a relief. I promise.”_

\---

“No,” Eliot said immediately. “No. No fucking way. _No,_ I would never do that.”

The Dark King shrugged. “I don’t need to defend myself to _you,”_ he replied, unconcerned. “Besides. You know, deep down, what you are and are not capable of. I know you.”

Eliot’s skin went cold.

He wanted to believe he’d never have taken that deal. He’d never have chosen to sever the part of him that loved, the part of him that felt, the part of him that knew what _mattered._

“If I ever believed there was a chance to save Quentin, I would’ve taken it,” Eliot said. “How the _hell_ could you take that deal? There was a _chance.”_

Shadeless Eliot narrowed his eyes, calculating with that cold fury behind his eyes.

“How much do you _remember?_ About being possessed, I mean.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you know the answer to that?”

He smirked like Eliot had said _exactly_ what he wanted to hear. “See, here’s what _I_ remember,” he said, voice nonchalant like he was discussing dinner. “I remember my hands being used to torture and hurt and kill. I remember the fear and pain in Quentin’s eyes as the Monster used _my_ hands to break his arms and throw him to the ground. I remember the feeling of Quentin’s throat in my hands, not even struggling because he was, I quote, _too tired to care anymore._ I _remember._ Now, tell me. Do you?”

Stung and aching and _furious,_ Eliot felt each word burrow under his skin, making him want to tear his hair out and scream until he lost his voice. He felt frantic and panicked and angry and underneath it all, just fucking _guilty_ and so fucking full of grief he couldn’t stand it.

He remembered, too.

He’d just been trying not to.

And here was the version of him that could talk about it—only because he didn’t care about it anymore. Only because it didn’t mean anything anymore.

Sick, selfish envy weighed in Eliot’s chest.

On some level, fuck, he _understood_. It was a choice he could’ve made. He didn’t want to care either, if it meant hurting like this.

It scared him how easily he could’ve made that choice. How easily he could voluntarily cut out the part of himself that loved Quentin. That loved Margo. The part of him that _felt,_ that hurt and ached and that _loved._

He could’ve become this person in front of him.

In another life, he had. In another life, he was the one taunting himself with the pain that he had the luxury of not feeling.

Instead, here he was, with the full weight of his loss threatening to break him into ragged shards.

“Fuck you,” he said, venom in his tone even as his voice cracked.

“El—” Margo said softly next to him, brushing her fingertips against his arm.

“Was it fucking _worth_ it? How nice is that goddamn throne, really? Do you feel like you did the right thing?”

“Eliot—” Margo said.

“What is _wrong_ with you? What, are you that fucking weak, are you _that_ pathetic? I mean, _honestly—”_

_“Eliot!”_

Eliot finally turned to her.

Margo’s eyes were wide. “Eliot, don’t you get what this means? It means that there _is_ a chance. We could save him. Eliot, we could _save him.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making my own rules about things.

“What, you think I’m just going to let you go?” the Dark King drawled carelessly. “You still broke into my castle. Or have you two forgotten?”

“You could help us,” Margo said. “You got that far once. You could _help.”_

“And why, pray tell, would I do that?”

Eliot wanted to scream. “What do you mean, _why?_ For _Quentin.”_

“Did you miss the section where I cut out the part of me that _cared?”_ the Dark King replied.

But _no_. Eliot refused to believe that.

It was more than that. Eliot knew that it couldn’t _possibly_ be that easy to make Quentin not matter to him anymore. It wasn’t like there was just the love he felt—it was everything, there was the muscle memory of being with Quentin for fifty years, the echoes of everything they’d been through. It was visceral.

It was a part of him that was tangled in every aspect of who he was. This version of him may have left the emotional pain and depth behind, but there was _more_ to him and more to Quentin and more to _them_ than that.

Eliot _believed._

Straightening his spine, he let the confidence, the certainty, into his tone.

“You still want to save him. I know you do.”

The Dark King looked away, scoffing and rolling his eyes.

Eliot recognized _that_ instantly _. Brush it off, pretend it’s fine, pretend it’s dumb._

It was working. He was right.

“Hades _manipulated_ you. You have to see that. Maybe he lied. Come _on,_ there has to be some part of you that still wants Quentin to be alive.”

The Dark King pursed his lips, looking deeply irritated.

The beat of silence stretched.

“I _suppose_ I’ve been lacking in entertainment.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Margo said, jumping on it. “Where do we start?”

The Dark King glanced at her before looking away.

“Well. There was one thing I needed to acquire before heading to the Underworld.” He sighed. “The part of the puzzle that people overlook when they’re trying to defy death. The ticket for how Quentin could come back.”

His tone didn’t sound very promising. “And where do we have to go to get this?” Eliot said slowly.

The Dark King regarded him, with a slight wry smile. “It’s closer than you might think.”

\---

The garden before him was shifting and moving, things growing and dying right before his eyes. His breath caught. It was… well, sort of beautiful. It really was.

“The flowers run on feelings or whatever,” Margo said, crossing her arms. “So. Tell us. What do we need to feel?”

The Dark King glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “The hope that only true love can give.”

Margo looked at the flowers. “Well, fuck. How are we supposed to conjure that?”

He just shrugged. “Well, I certainly can’t do it. I think your Eliot here is the one who can.”

Eliot wasn’t so sure about that.

He turned to Eliot, looking expectant and detached. “Well. Go on, then. I did it, so you _must_ be able to.”

Eliot glanced at Margo, a little desperately. He tried to tell her that he couldn’t do this, wouldn’t _she_ be able to, he was going to _fuck this up,_ there was no way, he hadn’t touched _hope_ in so long, it hurt to think about, _please…_

Nothing came out.

Margo looked sorry, but she shook her head slightly.

She wasn’t going to be the one to do it. It was supposed to be him.

Well, fuck.

He turned his gaze to the flowers, helplessly.

Margo cleared her throat and she grabbed Other Eliot’s arm. “We should give him some space. Come on, Dime Store Eliot.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair,” he said, letting her drag him out of the room.

“Knockoff Eliot.”

“Try again.”

“Goth Eliot?”

_“No.”_

Their voices faded, leaving Eliot alone in this strange, empty place.

Eliot stared at the garden.

Just what in the actual fuck was he supposed to be _doing?_

He took a deep breath and walked towards the flowers.

“So. The hope of true love. Sounds like something I could really fuck up. Given everything I’ve _already_ fucked up.”

He sighed, tapping his fingers against his thigh. He looked away, off to the side, finding it hard to watch the flowers bloom.

“If it were Quentin, he’d be able to do it. Wouldn’t he? Hope and love always came easier to him.” Eliot closed his eyes. “If the roles were reversed, this would all be going so much better. Q would be able to save me, no problem. But I’m not Q.”

He focused on Quentin, tried to visualize what he might say—

_Come on, El. We can figure this out, we always do. Just, um—okay, picture the Mosaic. Beauty of all life, right, El? You got this. I know you do._

God, Quentin’s voice was so clear. It broke his heart.

The Fillorian air could use some more opium, Eliot decided. Maybe that would do the trick.

“Right, the Mosaic. Beauty of all life. Peaches and plums and colored tiles and Fillory and _Quentin._ That _should_ give me hope; I _lived_ it. And it was beautiful, it really, really fucking was. But I couldn’t even feel that kind of hope in the best of circumstances. I couldn’t even feel that kind of hope when Quentin was in _front of me,_ asking me to try again.”

He ran his hands down his face, frustrated and lost.

“Fuck. I was afraid then, and I’m afraid now, and how am I supposed to feel _hopeful_ in all this?”

He begun to pace, his breathing getting shakier. He wanted an aspirin. Or a drink. Or a smoke.

Well.

He wanted _Quentin._

“Quentin and I, we—fuck. We had _proof of concept,_ and I refused to see it. I refused to believe in us. _Quentin_ had hope, and I’m the one that snuffed that out. _I_ pushed it away, _I_ ruined it. God. _Hope._ That’s not _me.”_

He stopped, inhaling deeply, trying to soothe his nerves. He turned, tentatively walking back to the garden. He knelt down in front of it, slowly and gently, like he was trying not to scare the flowers. He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly along the petals of a blue flower in the middle of wilting.  

“I want to believe. I want to hope. I love him, and I’ll love him forever, until the end of time. I would do anything to bring him back—why can’t I do this?”

_El, it’s okay. Just breathe. For what it’s worth, I’ll always believe in you._

Fuck. Quentin’s voice in his mind. He could imagine it so well, he could practically _hear_ it.

He let Quentin’s voice guide him through breathing—

_familiar, so familiar, like a lifetime blurred at the edges—_

and he focused back on the flowers.

“Is it enough?” he asked softly. “To _want_ to hope? Because I want to so fucking badly. I’ve got the true love part down, I suppose. But what—god, what does hope even look like anymore?”

He sighed, hanging his head a little.

“I don’t want to let you down, Q.”

_You could never let me down, El. It’s okay. I know how hard you’re trying._

“I’ve _already_ let you down so much. I just…” He closed his eyes tightly for a moment. “I want to make it up to you. I want to get the chance to.”

_So? Do it, then, El. You can now, right? Isn’t that kind of the point?_

And Eliot felt a slight surge in his chest at that. He _could._ He could apologize. He could explain himself. If he could just _get_ to Quentin, he could make things right. There was a chance, however slim, however slight, however distant—there was a _chance._

It was possible.

Wasn’t it?

All he had to do was believe. All he had to do was be brave.

All he had to do was hope.

A flower bloomed in front of him, with variegated petals, yellow and red.

And Eliot let out a shaky, startled breath.

There it was.

Hope.

Finally.

\---

Margo was, in the best of times, not a patient person.

She tended to be patient with Eliot, at the very least, but now there were two of them and she was already _exhausted._

“So, what, we’re just heading down that long, ominous staircase?” Eliot said, with wide-eyed faux sincerity, clutching the flower in his hand. “You know, I think I’ve _seen_ that movie.”

Other Eliot rolled his eyes. “Well, it was _your_ idea to get my help, are you going to accept it or not?”

“I’m sorry, forgive me for being a little skeptical, Evil Me.”

“Oh, sure, call _me_ the evil one. Please, we’re the same person.”

“ _Hardly.”_

“Hm, I guess you’re right, you don’t measure up.”

“Your arrogance isn’t _nearly_ as charming as you think it is.”

“Are you having trouble with the mirror, Waugh? Do you not _like_ what you see?”

“Boys,” Margo snapped. “I’m getting sick of your goddamn bickering. You can’t even _have_ a dick measuring competition, they’re the _same fucking size,_ so how about you knock it off?”

Eliot crossed his arms. Other Eliot scoffed and turned away.

She tentatively agreed with Eliot’s assessment—the staircase to the Underworld _was_ dark and Margo couldn’t help but feel like they were all fucked five ways to Sunday.

It was a risk they were taking. Trusting that the Dark King was being honest with them. Margo wanted to believe that she could trust any and every version of Eliot, but she couldn’t be sure. She’d never have believed that Eliot would give up his Shade if she hadn’t seen it for herself.

Well. It’s not like they had been particularly averse to risk taking lately anyway. Down the nightmare stairs they went.

“I thought you had to get a dragon to let you into the Underworld,” Margo said as she led the way.

Other Eliot shrugged one shoulder. “Fillory has a back way. I don’t have all the answers.”

Sure, okay, whatever. Good enough for Margo.

Everything was fucked anyway, who cared.

Besides…

As horrifying as the narrow, dark spiral staircase looked, as much as it was making Margo feel claustrophobic and tense, as much as this whole plan seemed borderline insane…

It was _Quentin._ What else could they do but _try anyway?_

She kept Quentin’s hesitant, sad smile in her mind—

The image of one of the last times she’d seen him—

Quentin, with those big fucking puppy dog eyes. Sadder than usual, but maybe she thought that was just because of Eliot. Maybe she thought they were at the same level, the same brand of fucked and falling apart. His hair falling in his eyes, the corners of his lips downturned.

Margo, trying clumsily for an encouraging, snarky comment and a smile, something that would usually earn her an eye roll or a scoff, and it falling flat.

Because Quentin was worse off than she’d realized.

Retrospect was a bitch, but Margo wasn’t going to let the guilt get to her.

Because she was _fixing_ it now.

She hadn’t always been the best friend to Quentin; she’d be the first to admit that. But she loved him, and she _knew_ he knew that, and she _would_ do anything for him.

Including this. Including climbing down a thousand stairs into the pitch black, just hoping she wasn’t about to get hit over the head and tossed into the darkness.

If Quentin was down there somewhere, Margo would find him.

She needed to.

\---

He knew he was _supposed_ to feel something.

He certainly went through certain motions.

_Quentin’s hands in his, Teddy’s laugh, Arielle’s smile, an entire lifetime of memories swirling in his mind, changing his world in an instant, and—_

Nothing happened inside his chest. No racing heart, no tightening ribs, no hitched breathing. It was all very steady.

But…

He remembered the feelings. And he could imagine them. And there was something, deeply ingrained in his skin, in his blood. He’d unceremoniously cut out the part of him that might cry or scream or melt in this type of situation.

So he _felt_ nothing.

But.

It _was_ Quentin.

And there was always going to be a tether he felt, a drive to—what, exactly? Help, save, soften?

He didn’t _quite_ understand any of it. He remembered, but he didn’t react.

He just knew what he was doing.

He was saving the man who deserved it the most. The man he’d abandoned once, in his cold callous cruelty that he’d purchased from the god of the Underworld.

He didn’t regret it. He didn’t regret anything.

He just couldn’t _quite_ explain the need he felt.

But, he supposed, no one was asking him to explain. They were only asking him to take them to where he’d failed once before. He could do that. He knew the way.

He would’ve made it before, if he’d been steadier. If he’d been as he was now. It was only his own hesitance and panic that made him falter, ultimately.

Eliot would’ve saved Quentin. Or, rather, he could’ve. If only he’d known then what he knew now, he’d have been able to save his own version of Quentin, the person he’d lost and subsequently abandoned.

Idly, in his time as the Dark King, he’d done research into the Underworld here and there.

He knew now that Hades had, if not outright lied, certainly _misled_ him.

It was true that there was no evidence that Quentin would be willing to come back.

It was _not_ true that he’d be that hard to find.

If you knew where to look.

All Eliot had to know was where Quentin would be, where the man he’d known would have spent his days in limbo. So all Eliot had to know was who Quentin was. He had to understand who Quentin was, understand the kinds of choices he made.

Lucky, then, that he’d had a lifetime to learn. Lucky, too, that he had no insecurities or fears interfering with his understanding of who Quentin was. There was no hesitance or fear that he’d gotten Quentin wrong or misinterpreted; he saw the situation clearly.

There was no one he knew better than Quentin Coldwater.

He knew where to look.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn't a very involved story. I've cut some logical corners. But so did the show writers, so like... Whatever.   
> Anyway, next chapter is the last one. Probably. I don't know, I have a tendency to add extra chapters.

The perks of being dead were pretty limited, but there was one thing in particular that Quentin liked about the Underworld.

There were a lot of rooms—tons of places you could go while you waited to pass on to whatever vague _thing_ was beyond this limbo.

You could bowl, or ice skate, or watch movies. Anything you wanted, really. There was quite a wide selection.

And there was one place in particular that Quentin had been spending most of his time.

There was one room you could go to, where you could check in on the people you left behind. It had a kind of array of mirrors. You find a mirror, you find a corner, and you decide who you want to see. It’s a quiet room, expansive so you can find your own space. It was the kind of place that had a somber atmosphere, like the grieving went both ways. You could check in on friends, family, see how they’re coping, see what you’re missing.

And, if you’re Quentin, you could cast a simple spell when no one is looking.

It was hardly the most popular place to hang out. A lot of people found it too painful.

Quentin spent enough time there that he noticed how people had a tendency to spend shorter and shorter periods of time with the mirrors. Other people, they were just trying to let go of their lives, trying to make sure their loved ones were alright. They’d check in, now and again, less and less. Until they took the train out of this place.

Quentin had something else in mind. He wasn’t ready to let go.

His friends back home, however, were, well…

Quentin could sympathize, but none of them were being enormously helpful or proactive. Quentin wasn’t sure where to start, so he was hoping some of them might have had some bright ideas, but no such luck.

They had the memorial at the bonfire and then…

Mostly spent a lot of time arguing, or drinking, or breaking things.

“Seriously?” Quentin muttered, watching Julia giving Penny 23 the cold shoulder and Alice run away to the Library. “None of you people have given up on anything in your _lives,_ come on.”

It was a little disheartening, but he understood that they were, well. Having a rough time, probably. Quentin wasn’t the one mourning for a friend, so he cut them some slack for not realizing he wasn’t about to board a fucking subway train into nothingness or whatever.

He wasn’t sure what he missed, between Eliot and Margo drinking and bickering all the way to them making a plan to save him. The mirrors didn’t work _great_ , and they especially glitched a lot when he was trying to look at Fillory.

In any case, as far as Quentin could understand it, something had happened, they decided it was possible to save him, and now Eliot needed to make a flower grow in that Fillorian garden.

Quentin glanced around furtively. No one else was in the room.

_Time to cast the spell._

You weren’t supposed to be able to _hear_ what was happening on the other side. Just see it. And you certainly weren’t supposed to be able to speak to them.

Here’s what Quentin gathered: the emotion Eliot needed to feel was some mix of hope and love to make the flower grow.

_But I’m not Q,_ Eliot was saying.

_Oh, Eliot,_ Quentin thought, his heart breaking just a little. Eliot looked so—

_Hopeless_.

Which was kind of the opposite of what they needed.

“Come on, El. We can figure this out, we always do. Just, um—okay, picture the Mosaic,” Quentin murmured into the mirror. “Beauty of all life, right, El? You got this. I know you do.”

It was hard to tell if Eliot could hear him. If he’d managed to get the spell right.

Eliot kept talking, and the mirror glitched in and out. He paced, looking anxious and shaky and uncertain. So unlike the smooth persona. No armor in sight. Quentin felt a little strange. He’d seen Eliot vulnerable before, but—

This felt different.

Then, for a few moments, the static went away and everything was crystal clear.

  _I want to believe. I want to hope,_ Eliot said. Quentin’s breath caught with the clarity of his voice, how it felt like he was right there. _I love him, and I’ll love him forever, until the end of time. I would do anything to bring him back—why can’t I do this?_

And _oh,_ that—

Well. It hurt.

Eliot loved him.

Quentin gripped the edge of the mirror.

“El, it’s okay. Just breathe. For what it’s worth, I’ll always believe in you.”

For a moment, it looked like Eliot could hear him, but Quentin couldn’t be sure. He half wanted to do the spell over again, just in case.

_Is it enough? To want to hope? Because I want to so fucking badly._ Eliot’s voice was soft, cracking slightly. _I’ve got the true love part down, I suppose. But what—god, what does hope even look like anymore?_

Frankly, Quentin didn’t know either. Hope had been pretty distant the last several months. And then, well, he ended up here.

Eliot sighed, hanging his head a little.

_I don’t want to let you down, Q._

Quentin’s lips twitched up, in an almost-smile.

“You could never let me down, El. It’s okay. I know how hard you’re trying.”

_I’ve already let you down so much. I just…_

It sounded so much like a response—maybe Eliot _could_ hear him. Quentin hoped so. He really, _really_ hoped so.

_I want to make it up to you. I want to get the chance to._

Quentin wasn’t even sure what Eliot wanted to make up to him, what he thought he _needed_ to make up to him. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that there _was_ going to be a chance.

Quentin leaned forward, a genuine smile growing on his face. “So? Do it, then, El. You can now, right? Isn’t that kind of the point?”

He caught a glimpse of a shift in Eliot’s expression before the image cut out entirely, back to being just his reflection.

But it was okay.

There was hope.

\---

When they finally reached the bottom of stone spiral stairs, there was a door.

Eliot clenched his jaw, steeling himself as he pushed through to the other side.

The sudden change was a little dizzying. It looked like a maintenance hallway, bright fluorescent lights and linoleum flooring. Closed doors lined the walls, with labels in confusing symbols that Eliot couldn’t decipher.

“This is the Underworld?” Margo said, sounding unimpressed. “Can’t wait to die, I guess.”

“Like I said before, the back way in,” Shadeless Eliot replied. “This is like, the employee entrance. The fast way to get to all the different rooms.”

“Rooms?” Eliot asked, half-listening.

“It’s the afterlife, they want you to have options. These doors lead to different places you can stay while you wait to move on.”

That caught Eliot’s attention. “Move on?”

“This is a waystation. A sort of limbo.” Other Eliot was walking slowly down the hallway, pausing to study the nonsense labels on the doors. “It’s to get you ready to move forward. To whatever comes next.”

Eliot’s heart started pounding. “You mean…” he started, “Quentin… Quentin could be gone.”

Other Eliot glanced at him, giving him an unimpressed once-over. “He’s not,” he said, sounding a little impatient and condescending. “God, your insecurity is annoying.”

Eliot glared. “Okay, come _on._ How could you _know_ that Quentin isn’t gone? If this place is only temporary anyway?”

Other Eliot rolled his eyes, sighing. “If you would just, like. _Think_ for once in your life, instead of catastrophizing—”

Eliot scoffed. “Oh, like you know so much more—”

“You spent _fifty years_ with the man, you really think he’d just fuck off and give in? Go quietly into that good night? You’ve _met_ Quentin, haven’t you?” Other Eliot waved a dismissive hand, continuing down the hallway. “Keep your freak out to yourself. Bambi and I can find little Q while you stand around, wondering and agonizing over whether you’re worth staying around for, whether he really does love you enough to stay.”

Eliot clamped his jaw shut, his skin itching with irritation. He wanted to argue, but, well. He couldn’t.

He _did_ have a part of him, a voice in the back of his mind, insisting that Quentin must be gone. Insisting that Quentin wouldn’t have waited for him. Insisting that Quentin didn’t _really_ love him. The fear was real, tangible. It’s why he’d fucked everything up in the first place.

And the Dark King, of course, _knew_ that.

“Boys,” Margo said with a sigh. “Put your dicks away, you’re both pretty.”

“Hm, sure, but only one of us needs the fucking reassurance and validation.” He shot Eliot a wry, smug smile.

Margo rolled her eyes. “Christ, Soulless El, can you quit it?”

He glanced at her and shrugged noncommittally.

Eliot swallowed, trying not to let the words burrow under his skin.

They were familiar because they were his _own_ words.

“So, what, are we just supposed to go into each room and call his name forlornly? Hope he hears?” Eliot said. He couldn’t keep the defensive edge out of his voice.

“I have an idea of where he is,” Shadeless Eliot replied as he kept looking at the labels.

“How can you even tell what any of those say?” Eliot replied, gesturing.

“I’ve had time. And all those books in the Armory. I read up on the Underworld.”

“Research in your free time?” Margo snorted. “Now I _know_ you’re not really Eliot.”

Eliot stared. Considering. “You were already trying to find a way to bring him back.”

The Dark King shot him a look—angry, defensive, hostile. “What? No. Why, pray, would I do that?”

“Because it’s _Quentin.”_ And it _was_ that simple.

Other Eliot scoffed, turning sharply to continue down the hallway.

“Here,” he said briskly. “This is the door we want.”

\---

The mirror wouldn’t show him Eliot and Margo anymore, so Quentin was checking in on Julia. She seemed…

Well, not great, if Quentin was being honest. She seemed miserable.

She was flicking through card tricks magic like that would be the thing that would bring Q back.

“You’re not even doing that one right,” Quentin mumbled to the mirror. He hadn’t charmed it in the hopes that she’d hear him—he didn’t _necessarily_ want her to hear all of his corrections.

She _was_ doing the trick wrong, in his defense. Her sleight of hand was terrible. She was just wholly relying on actual magic for the tricks, which was not really how you were _supposed_ to do it.

It was fine. Quentin could let it go.

But she _was_ doing it wrong.

A sudden noise startled Quentin and he fumbled with the mirror, dropping it to the tile floor. He swore quietly, picking it back up. There was a crack in it. He glanced around furtively before going through the spell to mend it.

Trying not to think about the last time he mended a mirror.

Trying not to think about the memory of it.

Trying not to think about how it felt.

Trying not to think, in general.

Across the room, he heard another noise. Like someone stumbling.

He hadn’t seen anyone come in.

He put the mirror down, getting up slowly to peer around to where the noise was coming from.

And then he heard—“Quentin?”

Any apprehension he’d felt vanished.

_“Margo?”_ he replied, disbelieving. He followed the noise until he found her.

Margo, looking relieved and thrilled and a little bit angry.

Quentin rushed over to hug her.

“You’re not dead, are you?” he asked, only half-joking.

She snorted. “Please. No, we’re here to break you out.”

Quentin pulled back, smiling at her. So fucking happy to see her. And then it registered— _we._

He looked behind her.

And _oh—_

It was Eliot.

His heart stuttered. Or at least, like, it _would_ have if he still had a heartbeat.

But then instead of stumbling into some nervous rambles, it was more like Quentin crashed right into a fence because—

There was another Eliot.

Two Eliots.

Quentin didn’t know where to look.

What. The. Fuck.

“Um, I—” he started. He didn’t even know what he was going to ask because, uh, what? _What?_

“Yeah, yeah, we got an extra, pick your jaw up off the ground, Coldwater,” Margo said.

He hadn’t even noticed he was gaping. He closed his mouth, swallowing.

One of the Eliots stepped forward, eyes soft and kind in a way that was so _familiar_ and beautiful that it alone could have overwritten every single memory Quentin had with the Monster.

“El,” he said, unable to say anything else.

“Q,” Eliot replied, throwing his arms around Quentin tightly.

Quentin melted into him, clinging back.

_God._ It had been so long since he’d really seen Eliot.

“Glad you could make it,” Quentin mumbled into Eliot’s shoulder.

He felt the vibrations of Eliot’s laugh in his chest.

“Sorry I’m late,” Eliot replied.

\---

He wasn’t sad. He couldn’t be.

Just… Hollow.

Eliot and Quentin, the way they were looking at each other…

He _remembered._

He watched, feeling so wholly distant from all of this. He wasn’t truly a part of it. How could he be? This moment, though he’d helped them get here—it didn’t belong to him.

He’d sold his chance at this moment for the hollowness in his chest. He’d chosen already. And he hadn’t chosen this.

He didn’t regret it.

Exactly.

He didn’t move forward. Even at Quentin’s confused questioning glances, he didn’t react. He couldn’t greet Quentin. He couldn’t pretend like there was anything for him here.

It was fine. It didn’t hurt.

“Well, I hope you know that even though I helped you get here from the goodness of my heart,” he drawled carelessly, “I’m not giving you Whitespire or Fillory. Fair trade.”

Eliot looked over at him. Something like gratitude in his gaze. And something like pity.

“You can have Fillory,” he replied quietly.

Margo shot him a glare. “We didn’t discuss that.”

Eliot turned to her, a small, sad smile on his face. “Bambi,” he said.

They stared at each other for a few moments, seeming like they were having some kind of non-verbal conversation.

And the Dark King remembered _that_ , too.

Eliot won the staring contest. Margo rolled her eyes, sighing heavily. “Fine, whatever, handing over our kingdom. Who cares.”

“We’ll still find a way to rescue Fen and Josh and bring them back to Earth,” Eliot replied gently.

“I mean, _obviously.”_

“Fen and Josh?” Quentin asked. He glanced quickly at Shadeless Eliot, eyes wide. “And, um, well, I—I still don’t—”

“Long story, another time, et cetera, et cetera.” Eliot looked at Quentin, warmth in his eyes that almost reached into The Dark King’s lost Shade. “For now, we’re getting you out of here.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not v happy with this ending, but if I wait until I'm happy with my writing, I'll be waiting forever. Anyway. This is the end.

“I don’t want to eat the flower.”

“It’s either eat the flower or die, Q.”

“I already died.”

“God, fine, it’s either eat the flower or stay dead.”

Quentin finally took the flower from Eliot’s hand, sighing heavily. Awkwardly, he shoved the flower in his mouth, his nose scrunched up. As he chewed and swallowed, his expression shifted. To something like awe and something near amusement.

He looked up at Eliot, brown eyed wide. Bright and alive—he looked like _him._

“You know what that tasted like?” he said, his voice low so it was just between him and Eliot.

“What?” Eliot said, his lips quirking up a little.

Quentin smiled, warm and open. Like the person he was a thousand years ago, when he first moved into the Cottage. “Peaches and plums.”

Eliot laughed, but it made his heart twist painfully in his ribs. “You know, that figures.”

A beat of silence settled between them. It felt nostalgic. It felt like home.

“I know how you got it,” Quentin said, a little more seriously. “Um. The flower, I mean.”

Realization crept over Eliot’s skin. “That was really your voice. Wasn’t it?”

Quentin smiled, just barely.

“So you heard me,” he said, soft.

“Yeah,” Eliot replied. “I did.”

_I was listening for you._

Eliot could feel himself holding his breath, just a little. There was the charge of words unsaid between them. The charge of a fragile, tentative understanding. Words were getting caught in his throat, but he wasn’t sure what he was trying to say anyway.

“It’s time to get going,” the Dark King’s sharp voice cut in. “Unless you want to stay down here?”

Eliot stifled a sigh.

Quentin glanced at him, brow furrowed.

“Are you gonna tell me—” he started hesitantly.

“Where we found snarkier, angstier me, you mean? Yes, I’ll explain all _that_ on the way up.”

Quentin’s eyes narrowed, looking at him a moment longer, before he turned towards the Dark King.

\---

“So what, we just climb all those fucking stairs again?” Margo huffed, crossing her arms. It was bad enough going _down_ them.

Shadeless Eliot shrugged. “I mean, yeah.”

“That easy?” Eliot said warily.

“That easy.”

“Easy? Fuck, speak for yourself, that was a _lot_ of goddamn stairs.”

“Wait. We’re _walking?”_ Quentin said, incredulous. “No, like, elevator or something?”

“Oh, honey,” Margo said. She punched his arm, not softly. “We climbed down all those stairs for you, suck it up.”

“Listen, I literally _died._ Haven’t I been through enough?”

“Fucking Christ, Coldwater. Are you just gonna be using that now?”

“I mean, probably.” Quentin smiled wryly. “Wouldn’t you?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “If you’re using that, then I’m using _we literally went to hell and back for you,_ asshole.”

“I mean. The Underworld. Not hell.”

“Quentin, I swear—”

“I’m just saying. I didn’t go to _hell.”_

“Is that _really_ what matters here?”

“Well, um, I mean—there’s, like, there’s a difference, right?”

“Q, darling, do _try_ not to get murdered by Margo while we’re still trying to bring you back.”

“If you’re all done—” the Dark King snapped. “I’d _really_ like to get back to my kingdom.”

“ _His_ kingdom,” Margo muttered, crossing her arms again. She could practically taste the bitterness. Yeah, she probably would’ve agreed—this was Q’s _life._ But she wasn’t thrilled. 

“ _Bambi.”_

“Yeah, whatever, I _know.”_

She did. She did know. She’d give up Fillory a thousand times to save Quentin or Eliot. They were her best friends. And in a lot of ways, saving Quentin _was_ saving Eliot. Fillory was a small price to pay, in the end.

And she couldn’t deny that she felt like this hollow version of Eliot needed some kind of consolation prize. He seemed so…

Well. Like he’d cut out the parts of himself that _mattered._

If all they could leave him with was the kingdom they’d been handed, she supposed that would have to be enough.

“Are we sure there’s no elevator?” Quentin said as they stared up into the darkness.

“Suck it up, baby. It’s not supposed to be _easy_ to come back to life. All things considered, you’re pretty goddamn lucky.”

\---

Quentin couldn’t stop looking over at Shadeless Eliot as they climbed the stairs.

They’d fallen silent after a while, focusing mostly on their own tired legs as they looked up, waiting for the door to appear.

Eliot had told Quentin what they’d done, what they’d found. How they’d gotten here.

There was a lot of information that Quentin was sorting through, some things he’d already seen in the mirrors, some things he hadn’t. Some questions lurking in the back of his mind for later—some clarifications and confessions. There was certainly a lot he and Eliot needed to talk about, eventually.

But—

This other version of Eliot, lost and alone and… Well, _gone,_ in a lot of ways.

It broke Quentin’s heart.

Picturing Eliot, scared and strung out and running on a fragile shred of determination. It broke Quentin’s heart to think about the state Eliot would have to be in to give up so much of himself voluntarily. He’d had to have been so _hopeless,_ so alone.

Quentin was having a hard time not blaming himself for it.

His feelings were stuck in this strange, tight spot. Because here were two versions of Eliot, two paths. And Eliot, _his_ Eliot, had summoned the hope and love necessary, had descended into the darkness to bring him home. _His_ Eliot had saved him.

And then—

This other version of Eliot had lost.

And Quentin—

Well, he just didn’t know if there was anything he could do. He didn’t know what was possible.

\---

Once they got to the top of the stairs and into Whitespire, Margo and Eliot wasted no time getting to the portal home. They both seemed to want to get away from the Dark King as quickly as possible.

Quentin, meanwhile—

Well, he was lingering just a little as they got to the grandfather clock.

He wanted—

Well. To say goodbye, he supposed.

Quentin took a hesitant step towards Shadeless Eliot. He studied his face—the apprehensive distance in his hazel eyes.

This wasn’t the man he knew. But it was, too.

“Thank you,” Quentin said, his voice low and sincere.

“Right,” Shadeless Eliot replied flatly.

Quentin’s lips quirked up in a sad smile.

“Q,” Margo’s voice called from behind him. “Come on, I need a fucking drink, let’s _go.”_

“Seriously,” Quentin said, not turning. “You saved my life.”

“All in a day’s work,” he replied airily. “No need to thank me.”

It was so constructed. Quentin could feel the façade, the high walls of steel. There wasn’t even a soft, bruised heart to protect anymore—it must be force of habit, this version of Eliot covering anything real, as though the realness he was covering hadn’t faded into white noise.

Quentin’s chest ached. He loved Eliot, every Eliot. It hurt to see the way things had gone, the way they could’ve ended.

This version of Eliot, his version of Quentin, they’d been so much more unlucky somehow.

Quentin wished there was something he could do.

He felt a tugging in his chest, back toward the Eliot he knew, the Eliot he loved.

Sorry and regretful and resigned, he turned away.

You couldn’t save everyone.

\---

The Dark King watched them disappear into the grandfather clock.

A strange, familiar ache was lingering in the corners of his memories. His hands didn’t shake, his pulse didn’t race. He was steady as could be.

No, it wasn’t a reaction—

It was the memory of one. The memory of who he was when he gave in to his fear.

He knew what he’d chosen. He could— _imagine_ himself in that other life. If Hades had never intercepted him. If he hadn’t taken the offer. If he’d known then what he knows now. If he’d been a little smarter, a little more hopeful. If he’d been a little stronger. If he’d been a little bit braver.

If, if, if.

If he’d been a better man.

If the world had been a kinder place.

If he’d trusted Quentin from the beginning.

If he’d trusted himself, his memories, his heart.

If and if and if. So many variations.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

There were so many paths he could have taken. So many places he could have ended up. This life, this world, this existence—it was only one version of him.

He wondered, absently, distantly—

What it might’ve been like.

There was something about being alone, something about being in this dark, enormous place. Something about _seeing_ the life he might have had. Something about…

Something about seeing Quentin, right in front of him, close enough to touch.

Alas. Nothing he could do about it now.

Not like he _cared._

He didn’t. He didn’t care.

He’d made sure of that.

The Dark King stood in the quiet for a moment.

It would be an amusing story to tell, in any case. The time he went to the Underworld to bring someone back to life. He could tell it during diplomatic talks with other leaders, or at parties. It would portray him as powerful, as compassionate—it would give him an amount of ethos. The other leaders would be impressed, maybe even awed.

Yes, it would be a good story.

Nothing more.

The hollow feeling would fade eventually.

He’d made his decision.

This was his life, and it always would be.

It didn’t matter.

This was enough for him. It would have to be.

\---

They tumbled out of the grandfather clock into the Cottage. Eliot hit the floor hard, groaning a little and rolling onto his back.

“I won’t miss that,” he sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

“I can’t _believe_ you traded away our kingdom,” Margo muttered, pulling herself to her feet.

“For a good cause, Bambi,” he replied.

“I _guess.”_

“Hey,” Quentin protested. He looked down at Eliot. “Are you just gonna stay on the floor, or…”

“Give me a moment.”

They’d _done_ it.

Eliot felt the air leave his lungs and he started laughing, bringing a hand to his mouth as he kept his eyes on the ceiling.

Quentin let out a hesitant chuckle. “Um. El?”

“You’re _here,”_ Eliot said between his slightly hysterical giggles.

“So it would appear.”

Eliot could feel the threat of tears in the tightening of his throat. He was so _fucking happy,_ and he was about to break down entirely. He didn’t think that they could really do it until this moment.

Quentin leaned down a little, offering a hand.

Eliot took it, pulling himself up to his feet. His breath caught at how close he and Quentin were, here in the land of the living, at home in the Cottage.

“I’ll go get us all some drinks,” Margo said, shooting Eliot a look before leaving the room.

Quentin glanced up at Eliot with a wry smile. “That wasn’t very subtle.”

“Our Bambi rarely is,” Eliot replied, glancing affectionate at the door Margo had disappeared through.

The tender, weighted silence of before came back—that feeling of the words unsaid.

Eliot realized he hadn’t let go of Quentin’s hand.

He jerked back a little, reaching up to fix his hair. Quentin followed suit, stepping back so there was enough air between them to breath.

“How—” Eliot started. He found it harder to look Quentin in the eye, now that it was all so real. “How much did you hear?”

“Um.” Quentin kept his eyes on Eliot’s. Each time Eliot glanced back, Quentin’s gaze was steady. “Not all of it.”

“But enough?”

Quentin was quiet for a few moments. “No,” he said slowly. “Not enough to know for sure.”

Eliot wanted to be relieved. He wanted to let out the breath he’d been holding. He wanted to be safe in the knowledge that he could continue covering and hiding. Safe in the knowledge that he didn’t have to take the risk if he didn’t want to.

He couldn’t. He _needed_ Quentin to know.

He took a breath, trying to find the words.

No words would come. They were caught in his throat. How was he supposed to string together a sentence that would encompass all the things he needed to say to Quentin?

Fuck. He wasn’t good with words.

So he didn’t say anything.

Eliot stepped forward, forcing himself to keep his eyes connected to Quentin’s. Quentin studied his face, looking hesitant and a little confused. Those long eyelashes, the deep brown of his eyes—Eliot lifted a hand, slow and careful.

He slid his fingers against Quentin’s neck, curling them around, gripping a little tighter than he needed to. Quentin opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but the words remained unsaid.

Eliot leaned down, pressing his lips to Quentin’s open mouth, kissing him deeply, hoping he could somehow manage to put all the meaning into it. He pulled Quentin closer to him, desperately, hungrily.

It was everything he knew, everything he wanted, everything he loved.

How could he have ever said no to this? It was worth putting his heart on the line. It was worth walking through the Underworld. It was worth dying for.

Quentin pulled back, breathing heavily, pressing a palm to Eliot’s chest.

“Eliot, I—” Quentin said, his voice barely audible.

“Please,” Eliot breathed, leaning his forehead against Quentin’s. Closing his eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of all that he wanted, all that he never would’ve dared to hope for. “Please tell me it isn’t too late.”

“It’s not,” Quentin said quickly. “It’s never too late. I want this. I want you. Can we—”

“Yes. Please, yes, _God,_ Quentin.” Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin, hugging him tightly. He could feel Quentin’s heart beating in time with his own.

They were together. They had time.

And Eliot dared to hope.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr at official-mermaid, if you like!


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